Believing In Sherlock Holmes
by AlexDayLover
Summary: John knows Sherlock wasn't a fake. He doesn't know that Sherlock's alive. Yes, another return fic. Don't shoot me. NOT SLASH


**AAARGGH… so tired. Sorry about this crap fic, but the movers have been here for a week and I wrote this in half an hour at 1 this morning. Enjoy (or don't) this story. Blair out.**

If John was counting, it's been three years, two weeks and four days since Sherlock's death.

Actually, scratch that. It's been three years, two weeks, and four days since Sherlock's murder.

Sherlock didn't commit suicide. John didn't believe that, not a bit. He might have, to be honest. He had started to think that Sherlock would jump just because he wanted to, but he realized that someone had put him up to it. Moriarty, most likely.

Sherlock was clever, clever. Almost fooling John, ALMOST. But not quite.

See, John could accept that Sherlock staged the crimes. He was the arrogant sort, and while it was unlikely, it wasn't that far-fetched. He could accept that Jim Moriarty really WAS Richard Brook, hired by Sherlock. He could even accept that Sherlock lied to him about the whole thing.

But Sherlock made a mistake in trying to convince John of his falseness. He told John that he researched him before he met him. That he didn't actually deduce everything about John just from a glance.

John KNEW that was a bald-faced lie.

If Sherlock had researched him, he would have found out a lot of things. That John served in Afghanistan, that he had a therapist, that he had a blog, a drunk sibling, and was looking for a flat.

Now let's look at what Sherlock COULDN'T find out.

Drunk sibling. Sherlock originally deduced "brother," but on learning it was a sister was quite chagrined. John knew that Sherlock hated to be wrong. He didn't think he would pretend to be, he had pride.

But assuming he was that good an actor. Next clue.

Sherlock said he researched him. That would mean he knew he would be meeting John soon. For that to be possible, Mike Stamford must have played a role as well.

John would never meet Sherlock on his own, their paths are too different to have crossed. And Mike, no offense to the guy, wasn't that bright OR subtle enough to be a good second in a plan like that.

But even in Mike could have pulled it off. John was leaving the college the day he ran into Mike. But that was mere chance. It was his lunch break, and his habit was to eat lunch at the college so that he didn't have to walk far on his leg. If Mike had planned on meeting John, he would have assuredly studied John's habits and met him inside. That day, John broke his routine in order to get Thai food, which he had been craving. If Mike had done his homework, he probably wouldn't have been sitting outside for eight hours waiting for John to leave.

Hereby, Sherlock Holmes WAS liar, but he was lying about being a liar, which could only mean that someone (e.g. Moriarty) had threatened him.

Now, John was smart. All that time spent around Sherlock and Mycroft and Moriarty, he had to be to keep up. But he could only figure out as much that Sherlock was for real. He still quite believed that Sherlock was dead.

He had checked the body. He had buried his friend. He had grieved for three years. And though he was still grieving, he didn't think in the slightest that his flatmate was alive.

Sherlock, on the other hand, obviously knew differently.

Today, Sherlock celebrated. He had done it. He had destroyed the last link in Moriarty's web. John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were safe, finally. He could go home.

But there might be a problem there, he mused. What would John's reaction be? Sherlock didn't know. It would be a surprise, hopefully a good one, realistically, probably a bad one. But he wouldn't know until he tried.

Irene Hadler-style, Sherlock sent John a text.

I'm not dead. Will you make me a cup of tea? I'll be home late tonight. -SH

As if he hadn't been gone three years.

John Watson received this text. He sat down hard when he read it, leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock… not dead.

Sherlock wasn't dead. John didn't believe that. Someone had sent a prank text, a very unfunny prank text.

There was another ding from his phone.

I'm sorry, John. -SH

WELL. HE WAS SORRY, WAS HE? THAT'S NICE. THAT MAKES IT ALL BETTER.

John felt angry, hurt, and confused. Then he felt all emotion ebb away. This was just like Sherlock.

He supposed he had better prepare the tea. If Sherlock really was coming back to 221B, best be safe than sorry.

Sherlock better have a good reason for this, John mused. He was an incredibly accepting person, easily forgiving, as evident of his time spent with an arrogant sod of a detective. He could do this.

He could do this.

Those four words became John's mantra for the next six hours while he waited for Sherlock. The tea pot had boiled long ago, and he had taken it off then put it back on an hour ago so it would be warm enough for tea.

He was lying on the couch, repeating his mantra in his head, when he heard the door open. Shooting to his feet, he ran to make the tea. By the time Sherlock made it upstairs, nervously looking about the flat, John was standing in the middle of the living room, holding two steaming mugs.

The two stared at each other. John held out the mug, not breaking eye contact. "You're late, Holmes."

Sherlock swallowed and took the tea. "Got held up."

"How so." It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

So Sherlock explained. And John listened, not all surprised at the story but still slightly fazed that his presumed dead friend was standing in front of him. When Sherlock finished, John sipped his tea, and said,

"I buried you."

"It wasn't me."

"I realize that." John contemplated his realization. "Does that mean Irene Hadler is alive, too?"

"Yes." Sherlock blurted. John nodded slowly.

"My mind is being fried right now." John said, smiling.

Easing the tension, Sherlock laughed. "I'm glad you're still same old John."

John embrace his friend, mindful of the mugs. "God I've missed you."

"I… missed you, too." Sherlock felt his eyes well up with tears. John's were misting, as well.

When they pulled apart, John asked, "How are we going to explain this to Mrs. Hudson?"


End file.
